Over
by Catalina Royce
Summary: [One-Shot] It's over, but she can't help lingering.


**Title:** Over  
**Author:** Catalina Royce  
**Disclaimer:** These stories are based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Summary:** It's over, but she can't help lingering.  
**Rating:** G  
**Author's Note:** Quiescence is back online, although now at quiescence.never-established/dot/net. Just change the dot to an actual dot. . The mailing list is still up, for anyone interested. Still working on Avarice, although very slowly. This was just a one-shot to distract me. I'm not so sure about how good it is, so leave a message and tell me what you think! Thanks as always to my betas; Eve and Nicole.

**Over**

"Over."

"It's over."

"They're over."

The hushed whispers followed her through the school corridor, echoing her thoughts. Her friend turned to her with a question in her smile and pity in her eyes. "Are you okay?"

What a question. Loaded with possibilities, with roads she didn't want to explore. She gave them a brave smile and nodded, her eyes unconsciously skirting away from their probing gaze. "Fine." As fine and sunny as the sky in winter. She clutched her books tighter to her chest and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear.

When she'd woken up this morning, it had been like she was in shock. The numbness inside her wouldn't allow her to feel anything other than a strange displacement, a knowledge that something she needed just wasn't there. It had gotten her through the first part of the morning, of the explanation to the first-giggly-then-shocked girls in her dorm room.

Her friend patted her on the shoulder. "It's for the best, Ginny." The group of girls – a guard of honour in her period of distress – surrounded her everywhere she went.

"For the best" seemed to be the catch-phrase of the day. Ginny took a deep breath and once again tried to smile at the girls. "Let's go, shall we? I don't want McGonagall to give us detention for being late." Everyone knew the end of that sentence was _on top of everything else_. Nobody said it.

They broke out in a chatter of words, some gossip, although the juiciest piece of gossip today was her and _him_. She bit her lip as a wave of misery washed over her. Now, the only thing they were linked together in were rumours.

She felt bereft, like she'd never be content again.

What she wanted was for him to walk up to her with that smile reserved for her, hold out his arms and tell her that it was all a horribly crude, crass joke and could she please forgive him?

The girls suddenly fell silent and one of them leaned over and nudged her. "Put on your best smile and pretend like you don't care. Because the other You-Know-Who is coming this way."

She froze, felt the colour drain from her face and knew that there was no way she could pretend she didn't care. Her fingers were cold, her heart was numb, she couldn't handle seeing _him_ this soon.

She saw the shock of white blonde hair first – as easily identifiable as her own – before she could see his face. He was walking straight towards her, and for a second she though he was going to brush past the girls and take her in his arms like he used to.

She'd be aloof, of course, and resist for a second or two before giving in. She was no pushover.

The group she was with pressed forward, but she slowed down, searching his face as he came closer, knowing that at any second he'd turn, or wink, or smile at her and stride forward. He passed without looking at her. The blow couldn't have hurt more if he'd physically ripped out her heart.

She straightened, pride saving her from complete disgrace. She faked a smile at her friends and relaxed the death-grip on her books.

She didn't see him turn around to look back at her as she walked away with a careless smile on her face, her friends giggling around her.

She got through Transfiguration only because she wasn't called on to participate. When McGonagall went to ask her a question, one of the guard of honour jumped in with an answer, whether right, wrong, or completely out of the ballpark.

She didn't open her book at all, didn't want to because she knew that inside was a letter he'd written to her not three weeks ago, telling her how much he _loved_ her. How had they gone completely wrong in that time?

A break-up shouldn't feel like the end of the world. It was a teenage relationship. It was only reasonable that it wouldn't last. She had to keep remembering that.

But she couldn't help the image of him flashing into her mind every time she tried to concentrate on being sensible. In her mind, he was smiling at her and only her, his hair slightly mussed from the wind and their...activities. He was sitting underneath the Beech tree, his legs drawn up, arms draped across his knees. There was affection in his eyes and she could tell that in a second he'd grab her and kiss her senseless again.

But never again. Her bewildered gaze settled on the idle quill on her desk, feathers ruffling slightly in the drafty room.

They'd been drifting apart. He'd been getting more and more distant over the past few weeks. She'd know he was troubled, yes, but she'd pretended that she hadn't noticed and tried to cheer him up by remaining the carefree person he'd said he'd fallen for.

And then last night...absently she chewed at a nail. Last night he'd said that it just wasn't working anymore, that she should have seen something was wrong, that it was time to move on and he hoped they'd stay friends.

She'd stood in absolute shock, trying to comprehend and failing, and at the same time hating herself for noticing the pain in his eyes as he said these words.

And so she'd been civil, polite. And walked away before she cried in front of him.

When she saw him again, it was during lunch, and she'd been staring at his hands, trying, once more, to comprehend that he'd never touch her again. She'd always loved his hands; long and slender and surprisingly warm, even in winter. She'd loved the way he would cup her face, his thumb softly caressing over that spot just under her ear in such a way that her entire spinal cord tingled. They'd never walk down the main street of Hogsmeade hand in hand again, either. He'd never tuck that wisp of hair behind her ear.

She looked up, slightly, wanting to see his face just once more before her pride took over and refused to look at him again. Her eyes connected with his, staring at each other across the room. Even from here, she could tell that his eyes were stormy grey, a sure sign that he was as emotionally unhinged as she was.

She was drowning in his eyes, wanting so badly to look away and show that she could get on without him, and yet, unable to stop from wondering if he felt as adrift as he did, unable to hurt him if he did. And so she kept that contact, staring at his eyes, not prepared to let go of the connection.

It had been like that in the beginning. Once, after their gazes had connected, they'd both rushed out of the great hall into the sunlight to fight. To laugh.

To love.

But not now.

Now, they simply stared, not looking away; unable to look away. She drank in her fill of him, feeling like a dying woman looking at the last glimpse of everything dear to her.

It was over. She knew this wasn't the last time they'd exchange glances.

But she also knew that, one day, he wouldn't return her stare, that their time would fade from his mind.

But for now, it was only natural; it had been like this in the beginning, and in the end, it was the same.

She smiled sadly and looked away, resisting the temptation to take another peek at him.

It was over, but neither of them could let go just yet.


End file.
